Blair’s eyes held Breakneck’s. His were the color of a stormy sea, but to her, they were an open book. She read every dark intention, every possessive thought, every raw, carnal impulse he was fighting to restrain. There was no hiding from her. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words and a tension so potent it was almost a physical presence.
She tilted her chin, a subtle challenge. Her fingers, resting on the polished counter, curled slightly, the only sign of the current thrumming through her. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, his jaw tight. He was a predator, and she was the only thing in his line of sight.
Breakneck’s gaze dropped, a slow, possessive sweep from her face down to her throat, to the frantic pulse beating there, and then lower still, lingering on all her curves before returning to her eyes. He stripped her bare without a single touch.
A muscle feathered in Blair’s cheek. She let her own gaze wander, tracing the powerful line of his shoulders beneath his shirt, the way his muscles tensed as if he were holding himself back from lunging across the space. She saw the hunger in the clench of his fists, the raw, barely leashed desire in the set of his mouth. Her lips parted slightly, a silent invitation, a dare.
What she saw in him was magnitude. Delicious momentum compressed into muscle and breath. The way he mastered it made her shiver.
He thought he had to hold it back.
She wanted him unleashed.
He shifted his weight, a barely perceptible movement that screamed intent. His eyes darkened, the pupils swallowing the irises. It was a promise of everything she was daring him to do. The silence was no longer empty but thick with breath and pulse.
“Don’t… Blair…” Her name came out rough, strained.
She felt it straight through her ribs.
“Just so you know,” she said softly. “What you’re offering? I like mine with a side of more.”
He looked away, exhaling hard. “Let’s make this fucking cake for fucking Tyler. I’ll help you bake the hell out of it.”
She held his gaze a second longer than she should have. Long enough to feel the pull in her bones. Long enough to imagine what would happen if she ignored him.
She nodded instead, heat still coiled low in her stomach and turned away before she changed her mind. She led the way, aware of every inch of space between them, and after a few moments, he followed.
Blair faced him over the kitchen island, arms crossing more for containment than posture. “So what exactly are you good at?”
Breakneck rubbed the back of his neck. “Not cake. Not frosting. Not…whatever the hell a crumb coat is.” He blew out a breath. “I lied, and I never lie. I just wanted to spend time with you.”
She felt her mouth tip wryly. “Even under false pretenses?”
He looked instantly chastised, shoulders dipping, lashes lowering like a guilty little boy, and damn it, the sight of him being vulnerable was its own kind of weapon.
He nodded, sober. “My mom wasn’t big in the kitchen,” he muttered. “I can barely boil water.”
The confession tugged at something deep inside her. Before she could stop herself, she stepped in, cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing the faint rasp of his stubble. “You never have to lie to me, Kelly,” she murmured. “Especially not about wanting to spend time with me.” She leaned in, breath brushing his mouth, and he moved, quick, slipping just out of her reach.
The little gasp tore out of her before she could stop it. She stepped back, stunned, but his hands shot out, gripping her shoulders gently, pulling her close without actually kissing her.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw clenched like he was fighting for every ounce of control. She watched his face contort, watched something raw flicker through him. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. Fuck, Blair…I want it too much.” He opened his eyes, misty and mysterious as fog, devastated with want. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop, and I don’t want to move fast with you.”
He let her go as if it physically cost him.
Her lungs weren’t working. She leaned in any way, slow, reverent, and pressed a soft kiss to the hard line of his jaw. “You may have a reputation for being a rebel, a sniper, a lethal pain in the ass,” she whispered. “But…you’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met.”
He swallowed, throat working. “Can we get to the cake before I lose my shit?”
She barked out a laugh, shaking off the trembling in her chest, and crossed to the pantry, wondering what it would be like for him to lose his shit. Two aprons hung there. She snagged them both and tossed one to him. He caught it, pulled it on, tied it behind his back, all while watching her like she was the only steady thing in his universe.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Something’s missing.”
He glanced down at the apron. “What—?” Before he could finish, she dipped her fingers into the flour canister and flicked a full handful into his face. Breakneck froze. Then a soft, low laugh rolled out of him, deep enough she felt it in her spine.
“Oh, babe,” he drawled, wiping flour from his lashes. “I may not know a damn thing about cakes…” He reached for the flour canister with slow, feral precision. “…but I’m a star pupil when it comes to food fights.”
Hours later, the fire snapped low in the hearth, casting golden light across the smooth pine floors. The scent of sugar and spice still lingered in the air, remnants of the cake they’d baked and the flour war she’d instigated, without one ounce of remorse, in the middle of her kitchen.
